Equestrian Psycho
by Conartist96
Summary: A wealthy Manehatten investment banking executive hides his alternate psychopathic ego from his co-workers and friends as he escalates deeper into his illogical, gratuitous fantasies. With ponies
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer I own no right to My Little Pony or American Psycho, they belong to Hasbro and Brett Easton Ellis respectively

Equestrian Psycho

"And as things fell apart. Nobody paid much attention" - Talking Heads

I live in the Equestrian Gardens building on west Eighty First Street, on the eleventh floor. My name is Batemane; I'm a twenty seven year old unicorn. I believe in taking care of myself, in a balanced diet, and a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my face is a little puffy, I'll put an ice pack on while I do my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now. After I remove the ice pack I use a deep coat cleanser lotion. In the shower I use water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an herb mint facial mask, which I leave on for ten minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an aftershave lotion with little or no alcohol because alcohol dries your face out, and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm, followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion.

There is an idea of a Batemane; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can touch my hoof and feel fur pressed against yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable... I simply am not there.

XXX

ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTERS HERE is scrawled in blood red lettering on the Chemical Bank in print large enough to be seen from the backseat of the carriage as it lurches forward in the traffic leaving Wall Street, and just at Price Tag notices the words another carriage pulls up blocking his view, but price doesn't seem to care because he tells the work pony he will give him five bits to hurry up, and the work pony, earth pony, not a unicorn, does so.

"I'm resourceful," Price is saying. "I'm creative; I'm young, unscrupulous, highly motivated, and highly skilled. In essence what I'm saying is that society cannot afford to lose me. I'm an asset." Price stares out the carriages dirty window as he continues, probably at the word FEAR sprayed in red graffiti on the MacApple's across the street. "I mean the fact remains that no one gives a shit about their work, everypony hates their job, I hate my job, you've told me you hate yours. So much for cutie marks, I mean what am I supposed to do? I didn't transfer to Pierced and Piercings to put up with this. I mean am I alone in thinking we're not making enough money?" Like in a movie another carriage appears and blocks his view-not the same bus because someone has written the word FILLYFOOLER on the side. Tag blurts out, "I have a co-op here. I have a place in the Hamptrots, for Celestia's sake."

"Parents', guy. It's the parents'."

"I'm buying it from them. Will you Bucking hurry up?" he snaps distractedly at the earth pony.

"I can't go no faster," ... maybe the Work pony says.

Tag ignores him and irritably continues. "I could stay living in this city if they just got rid of all the damn Earth ponies in the carriages. Maybe a unicorn filly could pull us around?" His voice softens here. "It'd be much easier to look at my friend."

Price takes off the expensive looking Trotman from around his neck, still complaining. "I hate to complain-I really do-about the trash, the garbage, the disease, about how filthy this city really is and you know and I know that it is a sty..." He says as he opens his new attaché case, places the Trotman in, and pulls out today's newspaper. "In one issue-in one issue-let's see here ... strangled models, foals thrown from tenement rooftops, colts killed in the subway, a Communist rally, Marefia boss wiped out"-he flips excitedly through the pages-" Hoofball players with AIDS, more Marefia shit, gridlock, the homeless, various maniacs, Coltcuddlers dropping like flies in the streets, surrogate mothers, the cancellation of a soap opera, colts who broke into the zoo and burned various animals alive, ... and the joke is, the punch line is, it's all in this city-nowhere else, just here, it sucks, oh wait, gridlock, gridlock, foal-sellers, black-market foals, AIDS foals, foal junkies, building collapses on foal, maniac foal, gridlock, bridge collapses." Price takes a breath and then quietly says, his eyes fixed on a beggar on the street corner, "That's the twenty third one I've seen today. I've kept count." Tag gives the pony a glare.

" But then, when you've just come to the point when your reaction to the times is one of total and sheer acceptance, when your body has become somehow tuned into the insanity and you reach that point where it all makes sense, when it all clicks, we get some crazy bucking homeless earth pony who actually wants-listen to me Batemane-wants to be out on the streets, this, those streets, and we have a mayor who won't listen to here, a mayor who won't let the bitch have her way, Holy Luna, just let the fucking bitch freeze to death, put her out of her own Celestiadamm self-made misery, and look" Price sighs "Number twenty four, nope twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven ... twenty eight, holy shit it's like a Celestiadamm cluster of bums." He stops suddenly, as if exhausted, and turning away from another carriage blocking his view asks, "Did you hear about the host from that game show on TV? He killed two colts? Depraved coltcuddler. Droll, really droll." Price waits for a reaction. There is none.

As we arrive at our destination he asks "Do you think Ivylyn invited one of her 'artiste' friends from ohmygosh the East Village, you know the type-the ones who ask Ivylyn if she has a nice dry white chardonneigh" He slaps a hoof over his forehead and shuts his eyes.

"I don't know should we bring flowers?"

"Nah. Hay, you're banging her, Batemane. Why should we get Ivylyn flowers? You better have change for a fifty," Tag warns, the Work pony, squinting at the red numbers on the meter. "Dammit. Stalliods. Sorry I'm tense."

"Thought you were off them."

"I was getting breakouts on my legs and the UVA bath wasn't fixing it, so I started going to a tanning salon instead and got rid of it. Celestia, Batemane, you should see how ripped my stomach is. The definition. Completely buffed out." He says in an odd way, while waiting for the earth pony to fumble around enough to get him his change.

As we walk toward the entrance to the apartment building Price eyes a beggar on the street-"Bingo thirty"-wearing some sort of weird, tacky, filthy green jumpsuit, unshaven, dirty mane greased back, and jokingly Price holds the carriage's door open for him. The bum, confused and mumbling, eyes locked shamefully on the sidewalk, holds an empty Styrofoam coffee cup out to us, clutched in a tentative mouth.

"I suppose he doesn't want the carriage," Price snickers, slamming the door. "Ask him if he takes Equestrian Express."

"Do you take Eq Ex?"

The bum nods yes and moves away, shuffling slowly.

XXX

A slow dissolve and Price is bounding up the steps to Ivylyns door. He rings the bell. Out of the door next to Ivylyns a mare-high heels, great flank-leaves without locking her door. Price follows her with his gaze and when he hears hoof steps from inside coming down the hallway toward us he turns around and straightens his tie magically, ready to face whoever. Courtneigh opens the door, she's wearing a off-white tweed jacket that compliments her mahogany coat quite nicely..

I shiver and hoof her my black wool my Giorgio Armanei overcoat and she takes it from me, carefully airkissing my right cheek, then she performs the same exact movements on Price while taking his Armanei overcoats. The new Talking Heads on CD plays softly in the living room.

"A bit late, aren't we, boys?" Courtneigh asks, smiling naughtily.

"Inept Haytian earth pony work pony," Price mumbles, airkissing Courtneigh back. "Do we have reservations somewhere, and please don't tell me Pastels at nine." Tag says as he passes by Courtneigh to enter further into the apartment.

Courtneigh smiles hanging up both coats in the hall closet. "Eating in tonight, darlings. I'm sorry, I know, I know, I tried to talk Ivylyn out of it but we're having... sushi."

"I think I better talk to Ivylyn" I say pushing past Courtney headed for the kitchen.

"Who the hay is in the living room?" I hear Price call out. Ivylyns voice drifts from the kitchen feigning ignorance.

"Oh who is that?"

Courtneigh warn, "Iv-e-lyn. You did tell them, I hope."

"Who is it?" I ask, suddenly scared. "Vase Powwow?"

"No, it's not Vase Powwow, Batemane" Ivylyn says casually. "It's an artist friend of mine, Stash. And Vanden, his marefriend."

"Oh so that was a girl in there," Price says. "Go take a look, Batemane," he dares.

I move into the living room. I can't tell what Stash is wearing since its all black but the utter lack of a horn or pair of wings says he's an earth pony. Vanden has green streaks in her brown mane; they look artificial and cheaply done. She stares at a heavy-metal video playing on PTV while smoking a cigarette.

"Ahem," I cough

Vanden looks over warily, probably drugged to the eyeballs. Stash doesn't move.

"Hi Bateman," I say, offering her my hoof, noticing my reflection in a mirror hung on the wall-and smiling at how good I look.

She takes it, says nothing. Stash starts smelling his hooves.

Smash cut and I'm in the kitchen.

"Just get her out of there." Price is seething. "She's doped up watching PTV."

Ivylyn just glances down at the sushi she's preparing, "We've got to eat this stuff soon or else we're going to all be poisoned."

"She's got fake green streaks in her mane" I tell them. "And she's smoking."

"Bateman," Tag says, still glaring at Ivylyn.

"Yes?" I say. "Price Tag?"

"You're a foal."

"Oh leave Batemane alone," Ivylyn says. "He's the colt next door. That's Batemane. You're not a foal, are you, honey?" I walk to the fridge and pull out a beer. Ivylyn asks Courtneigh to fetch Stash and Vanden.

"We have to eat this soon or we're all going to be poisoned" She murmurs slowly moving her head, taking in the kitchen making sure she hasn't forgotten anything. "Be a hon." She tells me, "Move the sushi into the dining room." I find myself wondering how Ivylyn got the sushi-but also I like the idea that I don't know, will never know, and will never ask where it came from and that the sushi will sit in the middle of the glass table Ivylyns father bought her like some mysterious apparition from the "Orient" and as I set the platter down I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the surface of the table. My coat seems a darker brown because of the candlelight I notice how good the manecut I got last week looks, slicked back a dark onyx color with a strip of dark crimson.

XXX

Four of us sit around the table waiting for Ivylyn and Tag to return from the kitchen. I sit at the head taking large swallows of J&B. Vanden sits at the other end reading from some rag called Deception, its glaring headline THE DEATH OF DOWNTOWN. Stash has pushed a piece of yellowtail that lies on the middle of his plate like some shiny impaled insect and the chopstick stands straight up. Stash occasionally moves the sushi around the plate with the chopstick but never looks up toward either myself, or Vanden, or Courtneigh, who sits next to me sipping plum wine from a champagne glass. Ivylyn and Tag com back perhaps twenty minutes after we've seated ourselves and Ivylyn looks only slightly flushed. Tag glares at me as he takes the seat next to mine, a fresh drink in hand, and he leans over toward me, about to say, to admit something, when suddenly Ivylyn interrupts, "Not there Price, stallion mare, stallion mare." She gestures toward the empty chair next to Vanden. Tag shifts his glare to Ivylyn and hesitantly takes the seat next to Vanden, who yawns and turns a page of her magazine.

"Well, everypony," Ivylyn says, smiling, pleased with the meal she has presented, "dig in," and then after noticing the piece of sushi that Stash has pinned-he's now bent low over the plate, whispering at it-her composure falters but she smiles bravely and chirps, "Plum wine anyone?"

Nopony says anything until Courtneigh, who is staring at Stash's plate, lifts her glass uncertainly and says, trying to smile, "It's ... delicious, Ivylyn."

Stash doesn't speak. Even though he is probably uncomfortable at the table with us since he looks nothing like the other men in the room-his hair isn't slicked back, no suspenders, no horn-rimmed glasses, the clothes black and ill fitting, no horn, and probably unable to secure a table at Camols-still, his behavior lacks warrant, and he sits there as if hypnotized by the glistening piece of sushi, just as the table is about to ignore him, and begin eating, he jumps up, and points a hoof accusingly at his plate, "It moved!"

Tag glares at him with contempt so total that I can't fully equal it but I muster enough energy to come close. Vanden seems amused and so now, unfortunately, so does Courtneigh, Ivylyn laughs good naturedly and says, "Oh Stash, you are a riot."

Ivylyn in an attempt to start a conversation says, "Vanden goes to Canterden."

"Oh really?" Tag asks icily. "Where is that?"

"Vermount," Vanden answers without looking up from her paper.

I look to Stash to see if he's pleased with Vanden's blatant lie but he acts as if he wasn't listening, but so does the rest of the table, which bothers me since I'm fairly sure we all know it's located in New Haunchshire, Celestia knows where Vermount is.

"Where did you go?" Vanden sighs as it finally becomes clear to her that nopony cares about Canterden.

"Well, I went to Le Rosay," Ivylyn starts, "and then to business school in Chevalbourg."

"I also survived business school in Chevalbourg" Courtneigh says.

Vanden tosses the copy of Deception next to Price Tag and smirks in a wan, bitchy way and though I am pissed off a little that Ivylyn doesn't hurl it back at her, but the J&B has relieved my stress to a point where I don't care enough to say anything. Ivylyn probably thinks that Vanden is sweet, lost, confused, and artist. Price isn't eating and neither is Ivylyn; I suspect cocaine but it's doubtful. While taking a large gulp from his drink Price Tag holds up the copy of Deception and chuckles to himself.

"The Death of Downtown," he says; then, pointing to each word in the headline, "Who-gives-a-rat's-flank?"

I automatically expect Stash to look up from his plate but he still stares at the lone piece of sushi, smiling to himself and nodding.

"Hey," Vanden says as if she was insulted "That affects us."

"Oh ho ho," Tag says warningly. "That affects us? What about the massacres in Sri Flanka, honey? Doesn't that affect us too? What about Sri Flanka?"

"Well ... that's a cool club in the village." Vanden shrugs. "Yeah that affects us too."

Suddenly stash speaks without looking up. "That's the Tonka not Sri Flanka. Got is? The Tonka."

Vanden looks down, then meekly says, "Oh."

"I mean don't you know about Sri Flanka? About how the extremists are wiping out the Pegusi over there?" Price Tag goads her. "Doesn't that affect us?"

"Oh come on, Price," I say. "There are more important problems than Sri Flanka to worry about. Sure our foreign policy is important, but there are more pressing problems at hand."

"Like what?" he asks without looking away from Vanden.

"No," I start, hesitantly. "Well, we have to end apartheid for one. And slow down the nuclear arms race, stop terrorism and world hunger. Ensure a strong national defense, prevent the spread of communism in Central Equestria, work for a Middle East peace settlement, and prevent Equestrian military involvement overseas. We have to ensure that Equestria is a respected world power. Now that's not to belittle our domestic problems, which are equally important, if not more. Better and more affordable long-term care for the elderly, control and find a cure for the AIDS epidemic, clean up environmental damage from toxic waste and pollution, improve the quality of primary and secondary education, strengthen laws to crack down on crime and illegal drugs. We also have to ensure that college education is affordable for the middle class and protect Social Security for senior citizens plus conserve natural resources and wilderness areas and reduce the influence of political action committees."

The table stares at me uncomfortably, even Stash, but I'm on a roll.

"But economically we're still a mess. We have to find a way to hold down the inflation rate and reduce the deficit. We also need to provide training and jobs for the unemployed as well as protect existing Equestrian jobs from unfair foreign imports. We have to make Equestria the leader in new technology. At the same time we need to promote economic growth and business expansion and hold the line against federal income taxes and hold down interest rates while promoting opportunities for small businesses and controlling mergers and big corporate takeovers."

Price nearly spits up his drink after this comment but I try to make eye contact with each one of them, especially Vanden, who if she got rid of the green streak and the leather and got some color-maybe joined an aerobics class, slipped on a blouse-might be pretty. But why does she sleep with Stash? He's lumpy and pale and has a bad cropped manecut and is at least ten pounds overweight; there's no muscle tone under the black shirt.

"But we can't ignore our social needs either. We have to stop ponies from abusing the welfare system. We have to provide food and shelter for the homeless and oppose racial discrimination and promote civil rights while also promoting equal rights for mares but change the abortion laws to protect the right to life yet still somehow maintain mare's freedom of choice. We also have to control the influx of illegal immigrants. We have to encourage a return to traditional moral values and curb graphic sex and violence on TV, in movies, in popular music, everywhere. Most importantly we have to promote general concern and less materialism in young ponies."

I finish my drink. The table sits facing me in total silence.


	2. Chapter 2

Equestrian Psycho Chapter 2

"One of the major mistakes ponies make is that they think manners are only the expression of happy ideas. There's a whole range of behavior that can be expressed in a mannerly way. That's what civilization is all about-doing it in a mannerly and not an antagonistic way. In civilization there have to be some restraints. If we followed every impulse, we'd be killing one another." -Miss Manners

"Well that was certainly entertaining." remarked Price; he's now lying on a late eighth-century carpet drinking espresso from a coffee cup on the floor of Ivylyn's room. I'm lying on Ivylyn's bed holding a tapestry pillow between my hooves, drinking another Absolut. Ivylyn sits at her dressing table brushing her hair with a "Ralph Lauren" green and white striped silk robe draped over a very nice withers, and she is gazing at her reflection in the vanity mirror.

"Am I the only one who grasped the fact that Stash assumed his piece of sushi was"-I cough, then resume-"a pet? Am I the only one who saw Stash take the sushi, from his plate, and slip it into his pocket?" When I mention this to Ivylyn, she gives me a look so hateful that it seems doubtful that we will have sex later on tonight. But I stick around anyway. So does Price.

"Please stop inviting your 'artiste' friends over," Tag says tiredly. "I'm sick of being the only one at dinner who hasn't talked to an extraequestrial."

"And at Maneapolis, no less," Price mutters.

I vaguely wonder why I wasn't invited to Maneapolis for the artists dinner. Had Ivylyn picked up the tab? Probably. And I suddenly picture a smiling Ivylyn, secretly morose, sitting at a whole table of Stash's friends-all of them constructing little log cabins with their hay fries or pretending their grilled salmon was alive and moving the piece of fish around the table, the fish conversing with each other about the "art scene," new galleries; maybe even trying to fit the fish into the log cabin made of hay fries...

"If you remember well enough, I hadn't seen one either," Ivylyn says.

"No, but Batemane's your coltfriend, so that counted." Price guffaws and I magically toss the pillow at him. He catches it then throws it back at me.

"Leave Batemane alone. He's the colt next door," Ivylyn states, "You're not an extraequestrial, are you honey?"

"Should I even dignify that question with an answer?" I sigh.

"Oh baby." She pouts into the mirror, looking at me in its mirror, looking at me in its reflection. "I know you're not an extraequestrial."

"Relief," I mutter to myself.

"No, but Stash was there at Maneapolis that night," Price continues, and then, looking over at me, "At Maneapolis. Are you listening, Batemane?"

"No he wasn't," Ivylyn says

"Oh yes he was, but his name wasn't Stash last time. It was Horseshoe or Magnet or Ego or something equally adult," Price sneers. "I forget."

"Price Tag, what are you going on about?" Ivylyn asks tiredly. "I'm not even listening to you." She says, annoyed, but she looks over at Tag in the mirror and smiles flirtatiously.

"And my Celestia, what is a ... Vanden?" Price says, staring back, grinning at her in his wolfish, lewd way. I concentrate on the Absolut and it looks like a glassful of thin, watery blood with ice and a lemon wedge in it.

"Oh don't bring this up," Ivylyn whines and starts brushing her hair.

"Vanden is a cross between ... The Limited and ... used Benetton," Price says, holding up his hooves, his eyes closed.

"No." I smile, trying to integrate myself into the conversation. "Used Fiorucci."

"Yeah," Tag says. "I guess." His eyes, now open, zone in on Ivylyn.

"Price Tag, lay off," Ivylyn says. "She's a Canterden filly. What do you expect?" Tag Moans.

"I am so sick of hearing Canterden filly problems. Oh my coltfriend, I love him but he loves somepony else and oh how I longed for him and he ignored me and blahblahblahblahblahblahblah-Celestia, how boring. College foals. It matter, you know? It's sad, right Batemane?"

"Yeah. Matters. Sad."

"See, Batemane agrees with me," Price says Smugly.

"Oh he does not, Batemane is not a cynic, Price Tag. He's the colt next door, aren't you honey?"

"No I'm not," I whisper to myself. "I'm a bucking evil psychopath."

"Oh so what," Ivylyn sighs. "She's not the brightest girl in the world."

"Hah! Understatement of the century!" Price cries out.

"Oh gosh calm down," Ivylyn says.

"That's like saying you're a poet." Tag is drunk and I'm beginning to wonder when he will vacate the premises.

"Well," Ivylyn begins, "I've been known to-"

"You're a bucking word processor!" Tag blurts out. Ivylyn glares at him angrily.

"Don't you think you have somewhere to be Tag," I say offhandedly.

"Yes Batemane, escort your friend out of here." Ivylyn snaps angrily at me.

"Oh, I see, I'll just escort myself out." Tag says seeming mildly offended. Then he gets up and leaves the room, and presumably the apartment. I sidle up next to Ivylyn and examine my reflection in her mirror. I wait till I hear the front door slam.

"What is that fascinating ... odor?" I say sniffing Ivylyns mane

"Obsession." Ivylyn smiles flirtatiously. "It's Obsession, Batemane."

"It smells marvelous," I tell her and I wrap my hooves around her and hug Ivylyn from behind "Delicious."

She slaps me in a playful way, obviously pleased with my reaction, and finally, carefully I tilt her head towards me and kiss her.

"Oh, Batemane I can't do that tonight," Ivylyn says as she pulls away, "I have to go meet father for breakfast tomorrow."

"I never said anything about that," I retort slowly, still wrapping Ivylyn in my arms.

"I think I know you well enough to know what you're thinking," Ivylyn sighs. "Listen Batemane, can we talk?"

"You look... amazing. There's nothing to say." I reply, but she said so herself. I don't need to be here, I move away from the mirror and head for the door. "I have to return some videotapes, I'll see you later."

XXX

Lemon Wedge and I looked across the street to where the crosswalk sign change and we both begin to trot to our, final destination. "Oh yes, I believe you'll love the apartment, if you just let me show you around," I said to her, smiling to myself, excitement coursing through my veins.

XXX

"Bleaching, are you trying to say bleaching." I'm very annoyed, these poor stupid ponies. "Oh my Celestia ok, two things. One you cannot bleach a Chahoofi, two I can only get these sheets in Neigh Zealand, these are very expensive sheets." The couple behind the counter looked at me dumbfounded. The stallion had the sheets draped over his hoofs, a large red stain still visible on the sheets. The mare was trying to explain something to me, but her voice was grating and my patience was running thin. "And I need them... he he. If you don't shut your fucking mouth, I will kill you." The mare looks shocked, she shuts up, and she draws herself away from the counter. "Look I have a lunch meeting at Daisy's in twenty minutes, and I need those sheets clean by this afternoon." Apparently I wasn't clear enough, because somehow that stupid bitch gained enough courage to open her mouth again, because I could hear her screechy voice offending my ears. I turn to look at her, slamming my hoof onto the counter, and I see she's come around the counter, "You're a fool, I can't cope with this STUPID BITCHING, DO YOU UNDERSTAND!"

I hear the store's door open, and I quietly examine the pony coming through the door "Batemane?" It's a old associate of mine, Victory Lap. "I thought that was you- I mean isn't it ridiculous Coming all the way up here but they really are the best," Victory says. I snatch my sheets from the dumbstruck stallion and turn to face Victory.

"Then why can't they get these stains out, I mean can you, talk to these ponies or something. I'm not getting anywhere." I say showing her the sheets.

"Oh, uh... what are those?" A nervous tremble creeps into Victory's voice as she says this.

"Uh well its Cranberry juice," I say, quickly covering the stain. "Cran-Apple."

"Really?"

"Listen; if you could just talk to them I would really appreciate it. I'm really late; I have a lunch meeting at Daisy's in fifteen minutes."

"Daisy's! That moved uptown, right?"

"Well, boy, I gotta go, listen thank you Victory."

"Eh, maybe we could do lunch one day next week, you know I'm downtown on Whinnypeg Street."

"Victory Lap, I'm at work all the time."

"Well, what about a Saturday?"

"Next Saturday?" I look down to my golden genuine RollHex Omega Packtek series enchanted hoofwatch.

"Sure." I hear happiness creeping in on the edges of her voice.

"Can't, I'm afraid I'm attending a Matinee at the Royal Equestrian Ballroom. Listen, I've really gotta go, I'll, Celestia ... I'll call you."

"OK," I can hear the smile in her voice as I walk toward my personal extended carriage.

XXX

I'm on the verge of tears when I arrive at Daisy's because I'm almost positive we won't have a decent table, but we do, the relief washes over me in an awesome wave. "Celestia, I hate this place," Tag says, fidgeting at his seat. "It's a filly restaurant, why aren't we at Dorsal's?" The look of annoyance clear on his face, he taps his hoof on the table a few times.

"Because Batemane won't give the Maitre D' head," says Net Worth from across the table. I lightly chuckle, then I send a magically launched straw heading his way.

"They don't have a good bathroom to do Coke in," Patent Pending says, while rejoining us at the table.

"Are you sure that's All In over there?" says Net Worth, gesturing his hoof at another table across the restaurant from ours, where I'm almost certain All In is eating lunch.

"Yes. Dufus, I am," Price Tag says, Price doesn't even look up from the table where he's tapping his hoof tones of indifference resounding through his statement.

"He's handling the Fisher account," Net says.

"Lucky bastard," Price Tag says.

"I bet you, at least ten bits, that he date's mares who have 'good' personalities," I say turning to look at Net

"If they have a great personality, and there not great looking... then who bucking cares," Net says, gesturing with his hooves.

"Well, let's just say hypothetically ok?" I move my hooves out to relatively mirror Net's "what if they have a great personality?" I pause and we all look at each other in turn, then we each burst into laughter at the thought. "I know, I know."

Then in unison we say "there are no mares with good personalities." This fact being one we all know and agree on, and we hoof each other.

"A good personality consists of a filly with a little hard body, who will satisfy all sexual demands without being too slutty about things, and who essentially will keep her dumb fucking mouth shut." Patent says, a sly grin creeping onto his face.

"The only fillies with good personalities who are smart or maybe funny or halfway intelligent or talented, though Celestia knows what the buck that means, are ugly fillies," Net says, then he leans over the table listening intently.

"Absolutely," Patent, Price and I say.

"And this is because they have to make up for how fucking unattractive they are," Net continues, but I'm going to interrupt him because what I have to say is much better.

"Do you know what Add Gain said about mares?" I say effectively cutting Net off from what he was saying.

"Add Gain, the Maitre D' at the Canal Bar?" asks Patent.

"No, serial killer Whoofsconsin in the 950's," I correct Patent.

"What did Add say?" Net asks.

"When I see a pretty mare walking down the street, I think two things. One part wants me to take her out, talk to her, be real nice and sweet and treat her right." I say building the suspense for the inevitable punch line.

"And what did the other part think?" Patent asks, by now, I'm sure he and Net are thoroughly intrigued. But it also bothers me that Price doesn't seem to be paying attention, oh well it's his loss.

"What her head would look like on a stick... "I immediately break out laughing, but it seems that they didn't get the joke, because they just look at me, for a moment, until Price cuts in

"The voice of reason... the colt next door," then when he looks at the restaurant bill, he says. "Speaking of reasonable, only 570 bits..."

XXX

I arrive an hour late to work, it's not as though anypony cares. I am supreme in my own world; I arrive late with no consequences. All I have to do is call ahead and tell Jam, my secretary who is in love with me, to clock me in on time. When I arrive at my office Jam informs me that a meeting is going to be held in ten minutes in the main conference room.

When I arrive I find myself forced to sit with the biggest idiot in the business, Fiscal Responsibility, a closeted colt-cuddler whom is dating Courtneigh. "That's a wonderful suit, don't tell me, don't tell me, let me guess," Fiscal says, speaking of my gray Gino Valentino suit made in Stalliongrad, with a three button canvas front jacket made from Zebrican merino wool. Which is complemented by my Olive's ponies glasses perfectly. "Mmmm, Valentino couture?"

"Uhuh," I answer trying to sound as uninterested as possible.

"It looks so soft," Fiscal says, brushing his hoof lightly against my shoulder, which I quickly smack away with my own.

"Your compliment was sufficient Fiscal," I say mustering up my best irate voice.

"Hello Hamberstam, nice tie," says All In as he trots over to me, "how the hay are ya?" All in has mistaken me for this dickhead, Hamberstam. It seems logical because Hamberstam also works at Pierce and Pierced, and in fact does the exact same thing I do. He also has a pension for Valentino suits, and Olive's ponies' glasses. In fact Hamberstam go to the same barber, although I have a slightly better manecut. "I got an eight-thirty res' at Dorsal's," All In says addressing me, I can see the others at the conference look almost surprised "they've got a great Orange ceviche." All In tells me before turning his attention to another one of the ponies at the meeting.

"Dorsal's on a Friday night," says Price, "how'd he swing that?"

"I think he's lying," says Net. I'm not sure either how All In was able to get such a great reservation at Dorsal's-and it pisses me, but I decide to even the score a little bit by showing off my new business card. I pull out a container and open it showing its contents to Patent, and Price.

"Is that a gram?" Price asks, not apathetically, referring to a practice of drug dealers using business card containers to hide cocaine.

"New card," I say, lifting the card from the container magically, and setting it on the table "what do you think?"

"Wooah-ho, very nice... look at that," says Patent.

"Picked them up from the printers yesterday," I say.

"Good coloring," Price says.

"That's Bone," I say, "and the lettering is something called Silian Rail."

"That's very cool Batemane," says Patent, the jealous bastard, "but that's nothing, look at this." Patent then pull out his business card and slides it onto the table next to mine. A deep panic rolls onto me, and a brief spasm of jealousy courses through me when I notice the elegance of the color and the classy detailing.

"That is really nice," Price says.

"Eggshell, with Romalian type," I press my hooves violently into my lap as Patent replies, boasting, "What do you think?"

I can barely muster up an answer, "nice," I whisper, I don't have any other words to describe say, but luckily I don't need any.

"Celestia, that is really super," Price says, eyeing the new card, "how'd a nitwit like you get so tasteful?" I look between Patent's card and mine, and I can't believe that Price prefers Patent's card to mine. Lightheaded I rest my head against my hoof, then take a deep breath. "But wait you ain't seen nothing yet," Price says, he then slowly and dramatically reveals, his card for our inspection.

Even I have to admit it's magnificent. Suddenly, the conference room seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a hum compared to this... new card, and we all hear Price's next words. "Raised lettering, Pale Nimbus, white."

"Impressive," I have to admit, "very nice, let's see All In's card." Price slowly pulls out All's card and set's it on the table by the others. I'm stuck with its majesty, look at that subtle off-white coloring. The tasteful thickness of it... Oh My Celestia, it even has a water mark... Now I'm suddenly depressed that I started this.


	3. Chapter 3

Equestrian Psycho Chapter 3

Sorry about how long this took but problems in real life have made this take way longer than it should have. Also, uh, this chapter will contain explicit gore.

"Will you recognize me? Call my name or walk on by?" - Simple Minds

I slip a bag of bits to the bouncer, and he waves Price and me through to the clubs interior, as were walking in mares dance along the walls wearing provocative clothes, and I distinctly believe New Orders unmistakable single True Faith is playing. Price heads to get a table, I reach the bar and order a Brony on the rocks, hoofing a beverage ticket to the bartender, "These aren't good anymore," she says, "this is a bit bar." "That'll be twenty five bits," she says, and I take a moment to smile at her.

"You're a bucking ugly bitch," I say, in a deeply serious tone, she turns to the drink bottles behind her, "I wanna stab you to death and play with your blood." She turns back to me and sets down two glasses. I take a moment to admire myself in the mirror behind her, then quickly float them to me and make my way to Price. "I'm sorry Price; I just realized I need to return some video tapes," I say.

"Celestia Batemane, right now, you need to return them right now?" Price says incredulously, I down my drink and set the glass down.

"Yes Price, right the buck now, I'll see you later," I say, and begin to make my way out of the club. I keep getting brushed up against by all kinds of ponies, and I feel like I'm entering a newer, brighter world when I make it out. Despite It being brighter inside the club than out.

XXX

So I'm taking a walk down Broadneigh, where I stop at a teller where... just for the hell of it I take out a hundred bits. Making me feel better having an even five hundred on my pony. I find myself walking through the antique district. My watch has stopped, so I'm not sure what time it is, but it's probably ten-thirty or so. Homeless earth ponies pass by offering crack or scalping tickets to the grand galloping gala. I trot past a newsstand, a dry cleaner, a hardware store, and a diner, and the streets are empty. The only noise breaking up the silence is an occasional Taxi carriage clopping away towards the center of Manehatten. I stare at my reflection in an antique store's window. A street lamp burnt out behind me. Steam rises up from below the street, billowing up in tendrils, and bags of frozen garbage line the streets. The moon, pale and low, hangs just above the tip of the Clydesler Building.

The Bum, an earth pony, lies in the doorway of an abandoned antique store, on top of an open grate. Surrounded by bags of garbage, and a shopping cart from Wall-Maret, loaded with what I suppose are personal belongings, newspapers, bottles, aluminum cans. A hoof painted cardboard sign in front of the cart reads "I am hungry and homeless please help me." A dog, small mutt, short hair, real thin, lies next to him. Its makeshift leash is knotted, or maybe caught on the handle of the cart. I didn't notice the dog the first time I passed by, its only when I circle around the block and come back that I see it, lying on a pile of newspapers, guarding the bum. The collar on its neck with an oversized nameplate that says Gizmo, and it looks up at me, wagging its skinny pathetic excuse for a tail. When I hold out a shoed hoof, it licks at it hungrily; the stench of some cheap alcohol mixed with excrement hangs here like a heavy, invisible cloud, and I have to hold my breath before adjusting to the stink. The bum wakes up, opens his eye's, yawning exposing remarkably stained teeth between cracked lips, he's got a blackish coat, heavy set, and when he attempts to sit up I can make out his features more clearly in the glare of the street lamp, a few days growth of beard, a triple chin, and a cutie mark that resembles an antique vase, or pot. He's dressed in a tacky looking lime green polyester jumpsuit, with a worn down brown vest placed over it. Probably this seasons homeless ponies fashion statement. He seems... very drunk, either that or he's crazy, or stupid. His eyes can't even focus when I stand over him, blocking out the light from a street lamp, covering him in shadow.

I kneel down "hello," I say, offering my hoof the one the dog licked. "Batemane," the bum stares at me, panting from the effort of sitting up, he doesn't shake my hoof. "Want some bits," I ask gently, "some... food." The bum nods, and starts to cry thankfully, I telekinetically pull out ten bits, then change my mind, and float five back in. "Is this what you need?"

The bum nods again, and looks away shamefully, his nose running from the crying, then after clearing his throat says quietly, "I'm so hungry."

"It's cold out too," I say, "Isn't it?"

"I'm so hungry," he convulses once, twice, a third time, then looks away embarrassed.

"Why don't you get a job," I ask, still holding the bills in my magic, but not within the bums reach, "If you're so hungry, why don't you get a job."

Between sobs he admits, "I lost my job."

"Why," I ask, genuinely interested, "were you drinking? Is that why you lost it, insider trading, just joking, no really were you drinking on the job?"

He curls up pressing his front legs to his stomach, shivers, sobs, chokes, "I went bankrupt, nopony went to my store when there were so many other ones." I take this in, nodding my head, the red glow from my horn making the shadows dance.

"Eh that's too bad."

"I'm so hungry," he says and starts crying hard, still curled up on the ground. The dog, the thing called Gizmo starts whimpering.

"Why don't you get another one," I ask "Why don't you get another job?"

"I can't," he coughs, shaking miserably, violently, unable to finish the sentence.

"You can't what?" I ask softly, "Qualified for anything else, why hire you when someone whom the job is their special talent can do it, right?"

"I'm so hungry," he whispers.

"I know that, I know that, ok," I say, "geez you're like a broken record. I'm trying to help you," my impatience rises.

"I'm so hungry," he repeats.

"Listen, do you think it's fair to take bits from ponies that DO have jobs, that DO work."

His face crumples, he gasps, his voice raspy, "but whadam I going to do?"

"Listen," I say, "what's your name?"

"Old World," he says.

"Get a Celestia Damn Job Old," I say earnestly, "you've got a negative attitude, that's what's stopping you, you've gotta get you're act together. I'll help you."

"You're kind, you're kind sir, you're kind, you're a kind pony," he blubbers, "I can tell."

"Sssshh, it's ok," I say.

"Please," he says grabbing my hoof, "I don't know what to do, I'm so cold."

"Do you know how bad you smell," I whisper soothingly, stroking his face, "the stench, my Celestia."

"I can't," he chokes and swallows, "I can't get any shelter."

"You reek," I tell him, "you reek, of shit, DO YOU KNOW THAT CELESTIADAMMIT, Old, LOOK AT ME, Stop... Crying like some kind of coltcuddler," I shout, my rage builds. I sigh and bring a hoof up to press against my face, "Old, I'm sorry, it's just that... I don't know, I don't have anything in common with you."

He's not listening he's crying so hard he can't properly answer. I slowly put the bits back from whence they came; at the same time I move my hooves to hold his face, gently once more, with compassion. The bum stops sobbing and sits up, looking for the bits, or maybe his bottle of liquor. "Do you know how much of a bucking loser you are," I whisper, he starts nodding helplessly, and I gently run my hoof through my mane, pulling it off of and away from my horn, and being very careful, not to kill him, push maybe a half an inch of my horn into his right eye, flicking my head up instantly popping the retina. The bum opens his mouth in shock and rears back, raising a grubby hoof up to his face. I lean down on my haunches, and start stabbing him lightly in the stomach and chest, this sobers him up somewhat, and instinctively he tries to defend himself with his hooves, and the dog starts yipping angrily, but it doesn't attack. I keep stabbing at him between his hooves, and into his hooves, his eye burst open, hangs out of its socket and runs down his face. He keeps blinking which causes what's left of it inside the wound to pour out like veiny egg yolk. A sickening squelch accompanies my stabbing now, bodily fluids spraying out as his organs are punctured, flying in arcs as if from some bay water show, his warm blood coating my horn, and dripping down onto my face. I lift my head and push him down with my hooves; he begins to moan and cry as I place my hooves on the left side of his face, applying pressure, and smearing his eye into the rough concrete. I use my telekinesis to pull open his eyelids; I bring my horn down and push it at an angle into the socket, breaking its protective film so that the socket fills with blood. Slitting the eyeball open sideways, he finally starts screaming as I bore into the sinus cavity under his nose with my horn, shattering the thin bone dividing his eye and nasal cavity, and then yank my horn out splitting his face, and lightly spraying me and the dog with his blood. Gizmo is blinking to get the blood out of his eye, and I quickly wipe my horn clean of blood on the bums face, slicing open, and tearing the muscle of his cheek. Still kneeling, I throw a bit in his face, slick and shiny with blood, both sockets hollowed out, and filled with gore. What is left of his eyes is literally oozing out over his screaming lips, in thick webby strands. Calmly, I whisper, "there's a bit, go buy some gum, you fucking crazy pony."

Then I turn to the barking dog, I rear up and stomp down on its front legs, while it's crouched down to attack me, its fangs bared. Immediately shattering the bones in both of its legs, and it falls on its side, squealing in pain. Front paws sticking up into the air at obscene, satisfying, angles, and I can't help but start laughing, lingering at the scene amused by this show. When I spot an approaching carriage I begin to slowly walk away.

XXX

I've decided to take advantage of All In mistaking me for Hamberstam, and I'm having Jam my secretary who is in love with me schedule a dinner with All In, or at least that's what's she's going to do as soon as she shuts the buck up. "And it turns out not only was he my father but he was in jail the whole time" Jam tells me, and I chuckle lightly letting her think that that story was remotely interesting.

"Alright, Jam I need you to schedule a dinner for me," I say, I need to get a chance to talk to All In; I want to know about the Fisher account, and not just statistical crap.

"Sure thing Sir, something romantic?" Jam asks me.

"No... Silly," I say, laughing at her mistake, "I'm having it with All In, I just need you to clear my schedule for Saturday."

"You don't have anything scheduled," Jam says, a confused look coming across her face, almost as if she's amazed. Normally, I'd line up a number of false appointments on Saturday, to have an alibi while I murder ponies.

XXX

I walk into the video store, and get in line behind a heavy sett Pegasus. The remains of a meal still stuck to the sides of their lips. I need to return a copy of Hoofloose; I believe Cavern Bacon had a great performance in it. The Musical numbers were upbeat, with a great message about cutting loose, and the headlining number, Hoofloose, spent three weeks in the number one spot on the billboard top one hundred. After three weeks it was overtaken by Against All Odds a single from Fill Coltins, a musician whom I enjoy. So I'd say it was an ok movie at least, the colt behind the counter looks like he fell asleep in a puddle of grease. I'm already looking forward to leaving this place.

XXX

When I press for information about the Fisher account, he offers useless statistical data that I already knew, about how Buy Low was originally handling the account, and how All came to acquire it, and though I had Jam gather this information months ago. I keep nodding pretending this primitive info is revelatory and saying things like, "this is enlightening," while at the same time telling him, "I like to dissect mare's, did you know I'm utterly insane?"

Then he'd change the subject saying, "Great coat Hamberstam, really impressive."

Every time I attempt to steer the conversation back to the mysterious Fisher account by saying something like, "Wasn't Buy Low originally handling the Fisher account? How did you get it?"

He would remark something stupid and infuriating like, "Well, Hamberstam, I could tell you... but then I'd have to kill ya," and he keeps guffawing... which I find totally upsetting. Then a waiter comes over to take our order.

The waiter begins to ask, "Would you like to hear-," but I interrupt him and order for myself. "Would you like to hear-," This time All cuts in and orders a double Absolut martini. The waiter again attempts to ask us, "Would you like to hear our specials?"

I promptly answer with, "not if you want to keep your spleen," the waiter turns and leaves, for the first half of the meal I'll drink a southern beer, and then switch to a Sparkle Cola halfway through, since I need to stay slightly sober. I'm about to tell All In that Raindrop, Hamberstam's marefriend has two vaginas, and that we plan to wed next spring in the Hamptrots, when he interrupts.

"I'm feeling slightly mellow," he admits, drunkenly squeezing a lime onto the table, completely missing his drink, and then while attempting to hold himself up on the table with his hooves, he slips on the juice and puts a scratch into the table with his horn.

"uhuh," I say, pretending to ignore him, he's so drunk by the time dinner is over that I.

Make him pay the check which comes out to two hundred and fifty bits.

Make him admit what a dumb, colt of a bitch he really is, and

Get him back to my place

XXX

He makes himself another drink, while I float out some of my records and hold one up for him, I ask him, "Do you like Hoofy Lewis and the News?"

"Ehh, they're, uhh ok," All says, slurring heavily.

"Their early work was too, new wave for my taste," I say, setting the record back down, and then I turn to him, and excitedly add, "but when Sports came out in '83, I think they really came into their own, commercially and artistically," I walk into my bathroom, and take out the axe I had stashed in the shower. I pop two five milligram anti-anxiety pills, washing them down with a glass of water. "The whole album has a clear, crisp sound, and a new sheen of consummate professionalism that really gives the songs a big boost," I say as slide a cheap raincoat on over my suit. As I make my way back into the living room with all, I do my best rendition of the moontrot to conceal my axe, and say, "He's been compared to Elvis Coltstallio, but I think Hoofy has a far much more bitter, cynical sense of humor."

All in has seated himself in a white aluminum folding chair, and has finally noticed the newspapers, copies of EQ Daily, Equestrian Inquirer, and the Manehatten Times, spread out beneath him, covering the floor to protect the polished white stained oak from his blood. I set down the axe leaning against a doorway, and begin to use my magic to button up the raincoat. "Aaye Halberstram," he asks managing to slur both words.

"Yes All In."

"Why are their copies of the style section all over the place, d-do you have a dog?" he asks, tiredly, "a little chow or something?"

"No All In."

"Is that a rain coat," he asks, after turning and looking at me, waving a hoof in drunken gestures.

"YES IT IS!" I yell, I trot over to my record play, and switch it on, "Hoofy released this, Fore, their most accomplished album. I think their undisputed masterpiece is Hip to be Square," I say. Then I Dance my way back over to the axe, All In turns away from me, too drunk to notice it. "A song so catchy, most ponies probably don't listen to the lyrics," I tell him, while lifting the axe magically above my head, then lower to my head level, and float it like I'm about to swing at a ball that just happens to be Alls head. "BUT THEY SHOULD," reckless abandon fills my voice, "BECAUSE IT'S NOT ONLY ABOUT THE PLEASURES OF CON FORMITY, AND THE IMPORTANCE OF TRENDS," the feeling of excitement courses through my veins, curling and building like an orgasms of nerves, "IT'S A PERSONAL STATEMENT ABOUT THE BAND ITSELF," I shudder with anticipation.

"I used to be a renegade, I used to foal around," Hoofy begins to sing, the upbeat progression into the first verse permeating the room.

"Hey ALL!" he turns to reply but the axe hits him mid sentence, "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH," I yell.

"I couldn't take the punishment, I haaad to settle down," Hoofy croons.

it hit him straight in the face, Its thick blade slicing sideways through his mouth, probably breaking his jaw. Alls eyes look up at me, then involuntarily roll back into his head, then back at me, and suddenly his magic is trying to grab onto the handle, but the shock of the blow has stopped him from concentrating enough to do anything. There's no blood at first, no sound either except for the newspapers under Alls kicking hooves, rustling, tearing. Blood starts to poor out of the sides of his mouth shortly after the first chop, and when I pull the axe out, almost yanking All out of the chair by his head. "TRY GETTING A RESERVATION AT DORSALS NOW YOU BUCKING STUPID BASTARD!" I scream.

"Now I'm playing it real safe, and yes I cut my maa-ane," Hoofy's voice building to the first chorus. I strike him again in the head splitting it open, and I start striking him repeatedly on his body, his front legs start flailing at nothing, "you might think I'm crazy, but I don't even care." Blood spurts out in twin brownish geysers, staining my raincoat, this is accompanied by a horrible momentary hissing noise, actually coming from the wounds in Ins skull, places where bone and flesh no longer connect, and this is followed by a rude farting noise caused by a section of his brain, which due to pressure forces its way out pink and glistening through the wounds in his face. "Cause I can tell what's going on," he falls to the floor in agony, and I use the back of the hammer to slam down snapping his horn clean off, I release the axe, and it clatters to the floor, where it falls into a pool of blood, "It's hip to be square."

"It's hip to be square," Hoofy sings, I move to my couch and survey my work; his face is just bloody, except for one of his eyes which is blinking uncontrollably." I like my bands in mini suits, I watch em' on T-veeh," his mouth is a twisted red pink jumble of teeth, and meat, and jaw bone, his tongue hangs out of an open gash on the side of his cheek, connected only by what looks like a thick purple string."I'm working out most every day, and waaatching what I eat, they tell me thaaaat its good for me," I remove the raincoat, and float a cigar out of my suit coats pocket, "but I don't even caa-are," I light it and take a deep drag taking it all in. "I know that it's crazy, I know that it's nowhere, but there is no denying that." It takes All In five minutes to finally die, "It's hip to be square," and thirty to stop bleeding.


End file.
